


Call It A Holiday

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: summerpornathon, F/M, Modern Era, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Getting lost is part of the Venice experience, Merlin had read that somewhere, and maybe it’s part of what he was looking for when he booked the tickets: the two of them together, unreachable, unfindable, hidden from the rest of the world.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It A Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for summerpornathon using picture prompt #4 [here](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/77350.html) [NSFW]; slightly edited from original posting.

Surprising Freya is still one of Merlin’s favourite things, and there had been joy enough in watching her find the envelope with the plane tickets, propped on the counter by her keys, watching her mouth draw up in an ‘o’ and her eyes grow wide with unexpected delight.

“Venice?” Freya had said, her voice hushed with bliss, and Merlin had grinned as he kissed the upturned corner of her mouth.

But that was nothing compared to standing beside her now, on the tiny balcony of their room, and watching her fall in love with a place; the water of the canal straight below them, the sun above, glistening off old rooftops and rippled waves.

Freya is utterly silent, and that’s her all over: quiet with her happiness, so careful, like the slightest noise may cause it to crack and fall into dust.

They get lost well before lunch, wandering the narrow alleys, Freya’s eyes growing brighter and her smile growing wider as the ever-present tang of salt settles into their noses, their lungs. Getting lost is part of the Venice experience, Merlin had read that somewhere, and maybe it’s part of what he was looking for when he booked the tickets: the two of them together, unreachable, unfindable, hidden from the rest of the world.

It’s cheaper to eat standing up than to take a table, so that’s what they do, in a trattoria with crumbling plaster walls painted a faded bluish-brownish-green that must once have matched the colour of the sea. Merlin and Freya share a basket of polpette, the fish inside piping hot and flaky, the breading of the little fried balls sticking to their fingers, and wash it down with one Campari between them. Merlin finds himself half mesmerised by the wave of Italian washing over them, loathe to break it up with English, and Freya must feel the same, because they limit their own conversation to the flickers of their eyes and twists of their smiles.

And, as they make to leave, the press of Merlin’s hand to Freya’s back, just above the waist of her summery skirt. It’s a clear question, and the way she nudges his shoulder with a tilt of her head is an equally clear answer.

They take a water taxi back to their rooms, after that. They’re in a mood to spend the afternoon indoors.

Freya flings open the window before she loops her arms around his neck, pulling their bodies flush together, and if Merlin weren’t already hard from the boat ride - the rhythmic slap of the water, Freya’s hand on his thigh, too high to be innocent, one finger ever-so-lightly pressing against his cock - Merlin would grow against Freya now, except he already feels pulled more taut than he can bear. He’s ready to press, to thrust, to rut.

He backs up against the bed, pulling her down on top of him, licking at the salt on her skin, in the crook of her neck, letting himself drown in the curling tendrils of her hair.

Freya works at his belt, lowers his zip, then stops, her small hand pressing firm and sure through the cloth of his boxers to his cock. She believes in giving moments time to breathe; Merlin’s bad at that sometimes, and knows it, so he stills his hips, lets himself feel the sea air on his body, the low pulse in his blood, the ageless love in his heart.

“I’m going to take off your shirt now,” he says, when he can’t hold any longer.

She laughs, the arch of her back sweet and instinctive. “You always have the best ideas.”

Later, much later, she’s sitting on the windowsill, smoking - bad habit, but everybody needs one of those, and Merlin’s long used to Freya tasting ever so slightly of ash, of death and rebirth. The late afternoon sun streams in behind her, throwing shadows and light over her smooth skin and the white of her camisole.

Merlin steps up between her legs, framed by her, blanketed by her, like the city is by the sea.

It’s a good way to spend the centuries.


End file.
